And so very alone.

I nod, slow and sure, silently admitting my defeat, then I turn to exit her vehicle without looking back. If this is what she wants—if this is what she needs—I have no other choice but to walk away. And even though I hear her crying, sobbing her heart out into the starry night through the cracked car window, I keep on walking.

I walk straight towards Mandy, standing in the middle of the parking lot hugging herself, her own tears of betrayal slipping down flushed cheeks.

“Mandy…” I say, picking up my pace so I can reach her, get to her, try to explain something I can’t even explain to myself.

But she whips around, her hair flying over her shoulder like a curtain closing. Mandy gets into her own car and speeds out of the parking lot as Cora’s car follows behind a few moments later. I’m left abandoned in The Broken Oar parking lot on a frosty January night.

It’s fine, I say, stumbling back until my foot hits a curb, and I collapse onto a patch of grass.

It’s okay.

I’ve slept in worse places.

Chapter Eighteen

My head is pounding when I wake up the next morning to a muted light trickling in through a nearby window. At first, I think I’m back in that basement. It’s day number sixty-three and the endless cycle of torture and mind-numbing madness continues. I instinctively begin tugging at chains that don’t exist, and when I snap back to reality in a cold sweat, I realize that the chains do still exist—they are the invisible kind.

Those might be the worst kind.

I rub the sleep from my eyes with the heels of my palms, sitting up on my elbows and taking in my surroundings.

I’m in Mandy’s bedroom.

“Good morning.”

My head flicks to the right. Mandy is sitting beside me, holding a glass of water and a bottle of Advil, her expression somewhat melancholy. Mandy drove back to the bar to pick me up five minutes later, too wracked with guilt to leave me there. I was grateful… though, I wonder if I truly deserved the courtesy. She brought me back to her apartment, and I plowed through the leftover alcohol from her New Years party, passing out a few hours later.

I sit up all the way, leaning back against her blush pink, upholstered headboard. I pop three pills and drink the water she hands to me, then set the glass down on the nightstand, sighing as I run a hand along my face. “I’m sorry.”

I’ve been saying that word a lot lately.

I’m sorry I’m still fighting a battle I can’t win. I’m sorry I’m a mess, drinking away my problems. I’m sorry my head is filled with dark, depressing thoughts that often consume me. I’m sorry I can’t touch the woman I’m supposed to marry. I’m sorry I can’t fix the woman who won’t let go of my heart.